


myosotis

by GlenKiyoko



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cigarette smoking is bad for your health, F/M, Gen, How about you tell me?, I suppose, I think cars are sexy, I'm not entirely sure, Infidelity, KiYoumi, KiyooMe, M/M, Prompt: roadtrip, Reader-Insert, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric, ba dum tsss, does this count as angst?, long drive, mentions of miya atsumu - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlenKiyoko/pseuds/GlenKiyoko
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi is just like his tobacco:strong,sharp,sweet,bad for your health.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	myosotis

**Author's Note:**

> To those who tread along the fine line between being loved and being held.  
> To Sage, [Either](https://www.wattpad.com/user/eithervb), [Nia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niawho/pseuds/niawho), Yoon, and [orange juice](https://twitter.com/yannni_hq) that's reminiscent of magic.
> 
> Take it, and run.

The sun has barely peaked, and the chirping of the birds has been chased away by the low hum of the Impala’s engine.

You stand against your front door with your hastily-packed overnight bag, eyes heavy from last night’s bout of sniping, and screaming at each other.

The sight of him is enough.

The sight of him in that olive green cashmere cardigan you’d gifted him way back in contrast to the sky’s gentle blush is just enough.  
Enough to coax that weighty mass of hollowness to engulf you from inside out.

Enough.

You’re just glad half his face is under a mask.  
If only it could’ve kept the careless words from spilling from his lips.

He’s rounded the car to open the door for you, but you decidedly sat yourself in the backseat instead, earning a hushed huff from him.

You would’ve snapped at him if not for the nothing eating you alive.  
If not for the black garment bag that hung silently beside you.

You puff up your bag to lay your head on it, and squeeze your eyes shut.

Mainly to avoid any conversation or confrontation.  
Whichever.

He gets in, and silently drives off.

Hours pass, and the sun has painted today’s picture:

Cloud-filtered sunlight illuminates Kiyoomi’s eyes that glance at you through the rearview mirror as he speeds through the wide expanse of road ahead.

You sit up, and his gaze connects with yours.  
The tension between his eyebrows eases by a fraction of a nanometer, and the corners of his eyes lift easily -- a hint of a smile.

In an attempt to detach from the unspoken greeting he seems to be telepathically expressing, you scoot behind his seat.

But his eyes catch yours when your stomach whines hungrily.

The signal light clicks, and ticks as he shifts towards the outer lane for a stop over.

Later, you return to the car with two breakfast subs, his usual order of coffee, along with other snacks you bought to spite him with for eating in his car.

You see him leaning against the side of the Impala with his mask pulled down as he seals his cigarette with his tongue.  
He takes it between his lips as he reaches for his lighter.  
Though once he sees you, he slips the cig into his breast pocket, then rights himself to meet you halfway.

You deftly avoid his gaze, and walk past him to place your purchases atop his car.

He catches his iced coffee in your hand before you can set it down.

“Thanks.” 

You wipe down the dampened coldness that’s stuck to your hand. You watch as he wraps several layers of tissue around the cup before taking a tentative sip.

Both of you quietly finish off your meals, leaning against the car while maintaining a slight distance apart.  
Afterwards, he opens the backseat door for you, but you settle into the passenger’s seat instead.

You click your seatbelt on as he starts the engine; its low purr reverberating in the air surrounding you.  
He offers you the aux cord, and you oblige.

After a couple of songs, the windows go down, and so does his mask. 

He takes the cigarette between his teeth, and pats himself down for his lighter.

He looks at you from the corner of his eye -- jaw slightly ajar, mask tucked under his chin, wind blowing the hair out of his face. 

He seems to be asking for permission.  
Even if it is his car.  
Even if he’s done it countless times before.  
You nod anyway.

He momentarily releases his grip from the wheel to cup his hand around the flame.

The tufts of smoke that slip from his lips are immediately sucked out of the window.

Gear in 5th, going a hundred and ten miles an hour,  
He looks entirely present.

You notice how the tension in his posture ebbs away with every drag, and every exhale.

You watch as he leans into the moment at hand.

You notice how unguarded he is.  
How he seems to meld with the scene: entirely earnest with the way his fingers drum against the wheel in time with the beat.

You lean towards him, and his eyes follow the trail of your hand as you take the cig from his mouth -- the tips of your fingers momentarily grazing his lips.

You bring the cigarette to your own, and take in a slow, long, steady drag deep into your lungs.

His tobacco isn’t like any ordinary pre-rolled convenience store-bought cigarette.

Sakusa’s was strong, sharp, and sweet.

After a few more hits, he allows you to place the cig back between his lips.

The windows are eventually rolled back up as the music blends with the Impala’s machinery, and the slight sound of it zipping over the asphalt at high speed.

You watch the scenery shift from buildings to rolling fields beyond your window.

Even when Kiyoomi plucks your hand from your thigh,  
presses it to his lips,  
and lays it on the shifter under his own as he drives.

Even when you loosen your fingers,  
and his fill the spaces in between.

Even when he shifts gears.

Even when his thumb grazes the outside of your hand with gentle caresses.

Even after hours of stewing in the silence

You keep watching the rolling scenery beyond the window as the hours drain the day’s light away.

Too soon, you’re veering off the highway, into a new city’s twists and turns, and eventually pulling up in a hotel parking lot.

“I’m sorry,” he says so softly it might as well have been wishful thinking.

He finally lets go of your hand to put his mask back on.  
You finally look at him.

There are tears staining his cheeks that are now hidden by the black fabric.

“For last night.” His voice is scorched with regret. “For everything.”

Kiyoomi lifts his hand to catch a tear that’s sprung free from your lashes, but you flinch away.

He retreats with a sigh like an ellipsis to punctuate the moment.

He reaches behind your seat to gain better bearings to park.

You catch his face in your hands.

To hold his gaze a while longer.  
To hold him a while longer.

You try to communicate a plea through your eyes.

Kiyoomi, please. Anything.  
Your hands wander over his body selfishly.  
Indulgently.  
Sinfully.

One hand snakes down to his heart, the other climbs up into his hair.

His eyes are locked onto yours as though awaiting your thoughts to unravel from them.

You do the same.

You hold his gaze that’s still swimming in unshed tears,  
tracing the damp trail his sorrow left down his cheek with a fingertip.

You take his warm hand on your knee as a green light. You tentatively peel off his mask.

The secret blush on his cheeks is exposed.  
You watch it deepen as you touch his neck,  
trace his jaw,  
roam his chest with your fingertips.

Kiyoomi’s lips part as you tug at the curls that tickle the back of his neck.

His gaze drops to your trembling lips, and you witness this newfound tenderness in his eyes that proves to be far more dangerous than the sharpest of his glares.

In these eyes, the longing unravels.  
Along with the truth.  
The inevitable.  
The agony, too.

With a fistful of his cardigan, you reel him in as you push yourself off your seat.

Closer now, you can barely hear anything but your pulse from echoing from the deep, dark nothing inside you.  
Even closer, you feel his warmth emanating -- steadily drawing you in.  
Impossibly close, your eyes flutter shut.

His lips politely press against yours.  
You gasp through the sliver of space worth a single thread’s entire girth between you.  
Instead of air, you taste only him.

Kiyoomi’s hand lingers a while longer on your knee before traversing to caress your cheek.  
Then, with fingers skimming through your hair, he pulls to tilt your head back, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

You will yourself to commit these things to memory:

Sakusa Kiyoomi’s lips are so soft.  
So is his hair.  
So is his breath against your cheek.  
Sakusa Kiyoomi’s hands are so rough.  
So was the sound he made when you pulled away.  
Sakusa Kiyoomi’s lashes sweep up from cheeks when his eyes are closed.  
Sakusa Kiyoomi opens his eyes like he’s waking up from the sweetest dream.  
Sakusa Kiyoomi’s blush glows a deep rouge under this purple sunset.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is just like his tobacco:

Strong,  
Sharp,  
Sweet,

Bad for your health.

You withdraw from him, folding your hands in your lap as you look past Kiyoomi.

Miya Atsumu -- tomorrow Miya-Sakusa Atsumu -- taps his knuckles against Kiyoomi’s window.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright?
> 
> Here's my [process playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3xJArOQEd97MjjQhJzgvtG?si=8ZCVZQBaRMWLUgHJGma_Cw).


End file.
